


Calling for Help

by Dayja



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: AU, Abduction, Big Brother Mycroft, Child Abuse, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Gen, Human Trafficking, Hurt John, Hurt Sherlock, Kid John, Kid Sherlock, Kidnapped Sherlock, Kidnapping, Stockholm Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2018-04-04
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:58:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 19,347
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628922
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dayja/pseuds/Dayja
Summary: When six year old Sherlock gets bored, he calls help lines to report his brother for the horrible abuse of putting him in time out and making him eat peas.  It's all fun and games until suddenly, a new inspector arrives.  Now, instead of scolding him for abusing help lines, he's being told how brave he is to reach out.  And now the inspector is telling him his name isn't even Sherlock Moriarty?  And that he had been kidnapped when he was three?  Surely this is just another 'scare him straight' method.  That can't be true.  All Sherlock wants is to go home to Jim.  And maybe take his new friend/foster brother John with him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: This story explores the themes of human trafficking, child abuse, physical abuse (nothing explicit), sexual abuse (discussed as a possibility by concerned investigators; no one is sexually abused within the story), and abduction. Some of this is just off screen or speculation considering the subject of the story does involve an investigation into human trafficking and child abduction. That said, Sherlock’s ‘brother’ is not nice. The things he does to Sherlock are horrible, and definitely a form of child abuse, but not physically violent.
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own/am not associated with/make no money from Sherlock.

“It said to call this number if someone won’t let you leave and they make you do work.  So I’m calling this number.  My brother won’t let me leave my room, AND he makes me do stupid, boring work.  You should come arrest him now.”

It wasn’t the first hotline Sherlock had ever called.  It probably wouldn’t be the last.  He did it whenever his brother annoyed him.  His brother had a way of doing that a lot. 

There was a pause on the other end of the phone before more questions came.  They were similar to whenever he called the abuse hotline.  That one had been fun, even if the police lady had rudely asked his brother if she shouldn’t take Sherlock in for domestic abuse the last time she came without even properly doing her inspection.  Though to be fair, it was the fifth time she had been forced to, in her words, waste her time on the little drama queen. 

Her partner called him worse things when he thought he couldn’t hear them.  He didn’t know Sherlock could lip-read.  Her partner also threatened to arrest him just for wasting police time.  He was probably trying for a ‘scare him straight’ method, but Sherlock wasn’t stupid.  They weren’t going to stick a six year old in prison just because their bosses make them inspect every last call to the hotline, even the ones everyone knows going in aren’t serious.

Anyway, they were serious.  His brother had put him in time out.  That’s outrageous.  He was six, not two!  Well, five at the time of that complaint but even so!  And he hated being confined in places, and he hated the stupid, boring busy work his brother gave him. 

The abuse hotline wasn’t as fun anymore because it seems there had been a memo and no one would talk at length with him when he called.  He’d just get a quick, ‘we’ll send someone over’ the moment he gave his name, and then he’d have those two stupid police officers coming over to scold him and take a quick glance about the place.  He had hoped this new hotline would be more fun.  He’d seen a notice for it outside a public restroom, written in three different languages.  It was to help stop human trafficking or something like that.

“He also makes me eat peas,” Sherlock continued to explain to this new hotline person.  She, on her end, didn’t quite seem to understand what dire torture this was.  He wondered if she’d actually hang up on him.  They weren’t supposed to just hang up on people, he was fairly certain, rather like how Donovan and Anderson always came when he called the abuse helplines, or, on occasion, the police themselves.  Apparently, they’d been assigned to him.  He wondered what they had done that merited that sort of punishment.  Or what he had done to merit them.

“And, and, and, he refused to put bubbles in our bath last night!”

There was a longer pause than usual at the other end.  For a moment, he thought they actually had hung up, but then he thought the phone should have made a noise, and it was just a heavy silence.

“Does your brother take baths with you?” the voice asked, a strangely tentative note to the question.  This hadn’t happened when he called hotlines before.  Even the really eager to help voices usually, by this point, would be saying something like, ‘Listen, kid, this is a serious helpline,’ and Sherlock would be saying something like ‘I know, I seriously need some help here’, and since he stayed on the line and he gave all his contact details there’d usually be a follow-up by Donovan and Anderson.  Unless it wasn’t an abuse hotline.  The homework hotline had, in fact, just hung up on him.  The suicide hotline hadn’t, but then, he got the feeling the guy on the other end actually enjoyed chatting with a random kid complaining that he was ‘dying of boredom’ instead of the more usual ‘dying of depression’. 

Slightly weirded out by the lady’s sudden interest in his bathing habits, he cautiously answered with, “No?”

“How old are you, Shirley?”

“It’s Sherlock!” he answered, outraged.  “And I told you, I’m six.”

She wanted to know more about his brother.  Did he ever help him wash?  That was a stupid question.  Of course he did; Sherlock was only six.  How old was his brother?  Sherlock had no idea.  Older than him.  Ancient.

“He wanted me to call him Daddy for a bit, because he said it makes more sense because he’s way older, but then he didn’t like it.  He said he felt too old and he said we’re brothers instead.”

She asked if he could get away on his own to meet with someone and he, getting a bit annoyed now with her inane and repeated questions, shouted.

“No, I told you, he locked me in!  I’m not allowed to leave!”

There was a sudden blinding light and his solitude was intruded upon by a dark shape in the doorway.  His eyes were too dazzled to make out his brother or his expression, but Sherlock rather doubted the man was smiling.

On the phone, the lady was saying he was very brave and that someone would be coming soon to help him.  There was none of the usual ‘this is a serious helpline’ speech that every line he had ever called gave, from the homework line to the library to the hospital to the abuse lines to even the suicide hotline, and he was fairly certain that guy had actually enjoyed their talk.  No one had ever said he was brave and whenever they said someone was coming, it was usually said more as a threat than as a promise of help.

 “Thank you, goodbye,” he said to the lady, and then he hung up.  He blinked his eyes, waiting for the spots to go away.  It was far too late to hide the phone, and he didn’t bother to try.  The figure in the doorway sighed when Sherlock innocently held the phone up towards him.  His brother studied him for a long moment, not moving to take the phone.

“I suppose I can expect another visit soon by the good inspectors?” 

Sherlock stayed silent, feeling inexplicitly nervous, as though he were waiting to see if a viper would strike or not.  That was ridiculous, of course.  His brother never hurt him, no matter what Sherlock did.  Anyway, Sherlock had been bored, and now he wasn’t, and that should be a good thing, right?

The viper didn’t strike.  Slowly, gently, the phone was plucked from his fingers and then Sherlock himself was picked up with annoying ease.  Sherlock was still waiting for a growth spurt that would make such indignities impossible.

“Well then, Oliver Twist,” said his brother, “Let’s get ready to greet our guests.”

It took an hour for the doorbell to ring.  That was fairly fast for the inspectors considering Sherlock was not, as they called it, a priority.  Once it had taken two whole weeks before they gave a perfunctory five minute visit that involved a quick visual sweep of the house and Anderson looking Sherlock up and down for signs of injury.  Sherlock hadn’t even had to take his shirt off that time and Donovan never made his brother unlock any of the locked rooms, which had that day included his brother’s bedroom, the basement, and Sherlock’s time out room.

This visit was nothing like that.  Apparently, calling a helpline for human trafficking is different than calling one for abuse.

It started out almost the same.  Donovan and Anderson were at the door when Sherlock opened it.

“Hello, Drama,” said Donovan, an almost friendly smile on her face, despite her clear exasperation at having to see him yet again.  Sherlock always preferred her to Anderson; she didn’t approve of him calling helplines but she never talked down to him either or wasted her time scolding him.  “It’s been a while.  You’re still six, right?  I’ve gotten good at copying and pasting my reports, and I’d hate to get a detail wrong.”

“For God’s sake, don’t cater to the time waster,” Anderson grumbled at his partner, looking far less pleased to be there.  “Please tell me I’m allowed to lock him up this time.  Surely, ten prank calls warrants a night in a cell.”

“You’re not allowed to lock up six year olds,” Sherlock told him.  “However did you manage to get a job in law enforcement, protecting children no less, when you don’t know what the laws are?  Even I know about that one, and I don’t have a badge or anything.  And you don’t know how to count.  This is your eighth visit, not your tenth.”

“I suppose you need to see the usual?” Sherlock’s brother asked, sounding part apologetic and part bored.  “Do I need to get out his records?”

There was a moment of silence.  Donovan had an unfamiliar expression.  It wasn’t exasperation, or annoyance, or even grudging amusement (as she sometimes showed when Sherlock said something particularly clever towards Anderson).  Sherlock couldn’t get a read on her.  He was good at reading facts about people, but not so good with expressions.  Anderson was easier.  His face held its usual level of unpleasantness and annoyance at being in Sherlock’s presence, but there was also amusement.  Anderson never looked amused to see him.  Something was different.

“Actually,” Anderson said, once they had their moment of silence, “It seems eight calls is one too many.  Congrats, kid.  You’ve earned yourself a proper medical and a trip downtown.  It might not be lockup, but maybe you’ll finally learn it’s not all fun and games to tattle on big brother for making you eat all your veggies.”

Donovan’s unreadable expression soured.  She didn’t like whatever it was that her partner was saying, though Sherlock still didn’t understand.  This wasn’t how these visits went.  They were almost soothing in their consistency, and if Anderson was happy about the change, then Sherlock suspected it was a bad development.

“I’m sorry,” Donovan said, to Sherlock’s brother and not to Sherlock himself.  “We’re to take him in.  There’s a new investigator called in, and Sherlock’s portfolio has all sorts of red flags, what with the number of our visits.  We tried to explain, his social worker explained, but they want new eyes on him.  You know it’ll blow over, but they want you both to come in.  Separate cars.”

“Do I get any say in this?  It’s not really the best timing…” Sherlock’s brother said.  His hand was suddenly on Sherlock’s shoulder, feeling unusually heavy and solid.

A second car drove up behind the first cop car, and a third car beyond that.  That last one wasn’t a cop car.  It was black and sleek.

It turned out, his brother did not get a say.

The look his brother sent his way as he was led to the second car was fairly mild, but somehow sent a shiver down Sherlock’s spine all the same.  It seemed to promise a future of peas for every meal, weeks in solitude, months of soul numbing boredom.

“I really am sorry about this, Jim,” Donovan said as Sherlock’s brother was peacefully helped into the car.  “I’m sure it will be cleared up in no time.”

“Or maybe they’ll finally lock the little freak up in an institution for juveniles and we can all get some peace,” Anderson muttered, just loud enough for only Sherlock to hear over the sound of the car door being shut.

 This was a strange and new development.  No one had ever taken his brother away before.  Usually Sherlock was interviewed inside the house, and on the very few occasions Sherlock had to go to the station, his brother stayed with him.

“Are you going to do your inspection now?” Sherlock asked in the ensuing silence as the car with his brother drove away.  “I can just tell you now I don’t have any new bruises, and the maid started using a different soap for the dishes and I don’t like it because it’s too lemony, but my brother says you can’t really taste the smell on the dishes after and won’t make her change it back.”

Donovan opened her mouth, that strange expression back on her face, but she never answered.  The man who came from the third car, who had been hanging back, walked forward and stood right in front of Sherlock.  Sherlock stared up at him.  He looked tired, and he had gray hair, which makes him an old man, but his face wasn’t wrinkly, so maybe he was just stressed.  Anyway, he was a grown-up, and all grown-ups are old.  His eyes were nice eyes.

“Hello, Mr. Moriarty,” the man said to Sherlock, holding out a hand for shaking.  “My name is Inspector Greg.  I suppose this must be a confusing day for you.”

“This isn’t how visits go,” Sherlock told him sternly.  “Donovan is supposed to look at the house and see if it’s safe and Anderson is supposed to look at me and see if I’m healthy and they’re supposed to look at my records and talk to my brother and then they go away.  You aren’t supposed to be here.”

“You do know your way around the system, don’t you?” Inspector Greg asked, and beside him Anderson mumbled, “He should; he’s abused it often enough.”  Inspector Greg’s eyes frowned when Anderson said that, but he kept his attention on Sherlock.  Sherlock liked that.  Then Inspector Greg kept talking.  “Things are going to go a bit different today.  You see, we need to make extra sure that no one in your house is being hurt, and that means we need to look around when your brother isn’t here, and ask questions of everyone that lives or works here.  So, you and I are going to go on a little trip to see a nice doctor I know, and he’s going to make sure you’re healthy and take a few pictures for proof, and then we’ll have a little talk about what it’s like living with your brother.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure he liked the sound of that.  Being glanced over by Anderson was one thing.  Being taken to a doctor was quite another.  What if the doctor said it was time for his jabs?  Besides, Sherlock hated having his picture taken.

“No, thank you.  I’ll stay here until my brother comes back.”

It turned out, Sherlock didn’t have a choice about going away either.  All Inspector Greg offered was to allow Donovan or Anderson to go with them.  He seemed to think Sherlock would be more comfortable going with someone familiar.

“Donovan can come,” Sherlock decided.  “Anderson is an idiot.”

“Do you want anything from the house, before we go?  Perhaps a toy?”

“I’m six!” Sherlock informed him.  He might not have quite reached that growth spurt he hoped for but he was still too big to be taken for a baby.

“Toys aren’t just for babies,” Inspector Greg answered.  Sherlock stared at him suspiciously, in case he was being made fun of.  Anderson did that sometimes, calling him names like toddler or rugrat, or once saying he knew four year olds who were taller.  Donovan called him names too, Drama being her favorite, but he minded it less from her.  He didn’t know why.  Perhaps it was because her names were more silly than mean.

“I’ve been in his bedroom,” Donovan said to the inspector.  “It’s all science experiments and books.”

In the end, he took his apiology book and a backpack full of clothes to the black car.  There was a seat in the back just for Sherlock, because Inspector Greg said it was safer for little kids to travel that way.  It looked suspiciously like a baby seat to Sherlock and he didn’t want to ride in it.  Perhaps he just didn’t want to get in the car.

He kept expecting his brother to come back or for Anderson to pop out and say it was all a trick and now will Sherlock never ever call a helpline again?  But Anderson was already gone and strangers were inside his house and Inspector Greg and Donovan wanted him in the car seat with his book and his bag of clothes.

It wasn’t boring.  Sherlock was beginning to think he brother was actually right; there are worse things than being bored.

“Come on, Drama,” said Donovan, while Sherlock deliberated over the merits of throwing himself on the ground and screaming until they all went away and left him alone.  “My seven year old niece still uses a car seat.  It’s nothing to get worked up over.  It’s to do with height and weight, not age.  And it makes it easier to see out of the window.”

Sherlock frowned.  That was just a tricky way of calling him short.

In the end, Sherlock didn’t start screaming.  He sat on the ground and glared at them all, daring them to manhandle him into that car seat.

No one grabbed him.  No one took away the car seat.  Donovan rolled her eyes and leaned against the car.  Inspector Greg sat down on the ground next to him.

“You’re still a stranger,” Sherlock grumbled at him, when the inspector failed to say anything at all, either to cajole him or to scold him back up and into the car.  “I’m not supposed to go in cars with strangers.”

“A good rule,” Inspector Greg agreed.  “It’s been a tough day for you, huh.”

“You aren’t following any of the rules,” Sherlock answered.

“What if I promised you ice cream?” Inspector Greg asked.

“That’s even worse than strangers telling you to get in the car.  Then it’s a stranger offering sweets.”

Inspector Greg started laughing and Sherlock turned his head to look at him, startled.  He was used to men like Anderson, who got annoyed with him, or his brother, who alternatively ignored him or hovered.  If Anderson had wanted him in the car seat, he’d have just grabbed him and fought to get the straps on, muttering about how annoying and useless Sherlock was.  If his brother wanted him in the car seat, he’d tell him to sit in it and then tell him what would happen if he didn’t.  Sherlock would have fought Anderson.  He probably wouldn’t have fought his brother, unless he was really stuck inside his own head, and then he’d probably regret it later when his brother followed through with his punishment.

Not being harassed or threatened was strange.  Someone laughing at what he said was new.  Sherlock studied him for signs that Inspector Greg was making fun of him.  People laughing usually meant they thought Sherlock was being stupid.

“Sorry,” Inspector Greg said.  “It’s just, you’re very old for your age.”

Sherlock studied him for a moment longer.  He couldn’t find anything in Inspector Greg’s face that he’d find in Anderson.  Just amusement and sadness and something that was harder to touch on.  Kindness?  This man was confusing.

It soon became clear that Inspector Greg was perfectly content to just sit there next to him.  A part of Sherlock wanted to stay for hours, just to see if Inspector Greg would wait.  Another part of him really and truly just wanted to go back into the house and lock out all the police people and for his brother to come home and tell him he had another stupid project for Sherlock to do.  The largest part of him was starting to find sitting still tedious, especially when he didn’t get a proper reaction for his rebellion.

“What flavor of ice cream,” he asked at last.

He held out until he was promised a proper sundae with real ice cream and whipped cream and chocolate sauce, none of that soft serve fake goop.

His brother never gave him ice cream.  Perhaps this inspector wouldn’t be so bad.

He just really hoped the doctor didn’t give him jabs.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: Basically, everything I warned for in chapter 1 becomes much more relevant. Child care workers are taught that discipline should never ever involve withholding food, water, or toilet privileges. It should not involve humiliation. And it should never involve physical punishment. Jim Moriarty fails at pretty much all except for the last point, and some of that comes to light within this chapter. Also, the doctor has to do a pretty intimate inspection. Sherlock was not sexually abused, but he still has to be checked out, photographed and asked some intimate questions.

Doctor Mike was not pleased about the sundae.  Possibly that was because Sherlock’s stomach was not pleased either.  The doctor asked a lot of questions about what Sherlock had eaten for the past few days.

“I have to eat peas when I’m bad,” Sherlock answered.  “Gross mushy cold peas. Jim says if I don’t want peas I can just be hungry.”

“What else?” Doctor Mike wanted to know.  “What about bread?  Or maybe some milk?”

Doctor Mike was not very smart.  He wanted Sherlock to tell him all about meal time.  What did he have for breakfast?  What about dinner?  What about snacks?  Sherlock had already told him.

“We don’t do mealtimes when I’m bad,” Sherlock answered, speaking slowly and carefully in the hopes that would help the information fit inside Doctor Mike’s head.  “Jim makes a big bowl of peas and I’m to eat as much as I want, whenever I’m hungry.”

Donovan had a funny look on her face.  It was making Sherlock feel nervous, like he’s saying the wrong things.  It was bad to get problems wrong; that’s one of the biggest things he can do to be bad.  The only thing worse was refusing to do his work at all.  That was why he had been put in time out this last time.  That was why he was bored and stole Jim’s phone and called the number he’d seen once for people who were locked away or made to work. 

Inspector Greg didn’t look upset with him, though.  He just looked encouraging, but that’s almost worse.  Sherlock didn’t like having to admit that sometimes he’s bad or stupid.  Donovan already sort of knew because she’s visited a lot and Jim explained it to her, but Inspector Greg didn’t know yet.  Sherlock didn’t want him to.  Anyway, everyone knows how peas are good for growing boys.  No one ever thought it was weird before, when he told them how his brother made him eat them.  No one stared at him with wide eyes or frowned before.  Everyone was behaving weirdly.  He didn’t like it.

“How long does that last, the just peas diet?” Doctor Mike wanted to know.  Sherlock didn’t want to say.  Everyone was stupid and he’s tired of questions, and it made his stomach feel upset again talking about it, and he didn’t want them all to know just how bad he could be, as they’d know if he admitted to how long the peas sometimes last.

In the end, he whispered into Doctor Mike’s ear.  Doctor Mike did not look happy, but at least he stopped asking about what Sherlock ate and moved on to the rest of the exam.

Doctor Mike had to check out all of Sherlock’s body to make sure it was healthy.  When Anderson did that, it usually just meant looking at him, and occasionally grabbing roughly at his arm or leg to twist it about in case there was something wrong that he couldn’t see.  Sherlock never liked those inspections.

Doctor Mike didn’t grab him roughly but his inspection goes on and on and he had to use all sorts of instruments.  He had to look inside Sherlock’s ears and up his nose and in his mouth and he had to put Sherlock on a scale and see how tall he was (in the lower percentile for Sherlock’s age; that part made Doctor Mike frown at his papers before he remembered himself and smiled at Sherlock again and told him he was doing a great job).  He made him cover his eyes one at a time and read letters off a poster on the wall, and he made him listen for beeps that meant he had to put his hand up in the air.  Sherlock was good at those tests.

He banged on Sherlock’s knees with a little hammer and made them twitch all on their own.  He listened to Sherlock’s insides with his stethoscope, and he even let Sherlock listen too.  Sherlock liked that bit.  He wondered if Jim would let him have a stethoscope for experiments, once they were back home and his punishment time was over.

Just when Sherlock was beginning to think that Doctor Mike was rather fun and that he didn’t mind coming after all, even if he did keep poking and prodding at him, he brought out the needle.  Sherlock knew there’d be a needle sooner or later.  There always were with doctors.

There weren’t many places to hide inside the doctor room.  Sherlock tried hiding behind Inspector Greg.  He rather thought Donovan would just hand him over to the doctor to be stabbed, but Inspector Greg didn’t seem to want to force him about like most grown-ups did.

It was weird.  He kept waiting for them to shout or threaten or just grab him and stick him with the needle anyway, but no one did, not even Donovan.

Doctor Mike just kept talking in a quiet, cheerful sort of voice, just as though Sherlock weren’t behaving dreadfully, and Inspector Greg let him use him as a sort of human shield, and Donovan just sat in the corner, almost smiling but with that same odd expression she’d had since they talked about peas.

“It only stings for half a second,” Doctor Mike told him.  “And after, you can have a special treat for being such a big brave boy.”

“The last time I let a stranger give me sweets,” Sherlock answered, still locked firmly to Inspector Greg’s legs, “I was sick all over everywhere.”

“Hey now,” Inspector Greg said, after untangling Sherlock from his legs so he could sit down next to him.  He was still between Sherlock and the needle, so Sherlock supposed that was alright.  “You like experiments, right?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered cautiously, suspecting a trick in there somewhere.

“Have you ever seen what blood looks like under a microscope?”

“Yes,” Sherlock answered, and Inspector Greg’s face got a funny look for half a second before it smoothed away again.

“Have you ever seen your own blood?”

No, Sherlock had never gotten to look at his own blood under a microscope. 

“Doctor Mike just needs to give you a teeny, tiny little prick so he can draw some of your blood out,” Inspector Greg told him.  “And then it’s going to go to a lab and people are going to do tests and make sure you are healthy and have enough iron and all that.  There’s a lot of things a person’s blood can tell about that person.  But before we send the blood away, if you just let Doctor Mike do his work, “I’ll bet we can get a drop to put under a microscope for you to see.”

Doctor Mike was frowning now, and Sherlock thought he didn’t agree with what Inspector Greg was saying at all, but that was okay, because Inspector Greg told Sherlock he could have a real sundae, and then he gave it to him, and he didn’t think Greg would lie about this either, even if Doctor Mike didn’t like it.

“Can we look at your blood too?” Sherlock asked.  “It’s best to have something to compare.”

Inspector Greg looked startled, and then started to laugh again.  Sherlock stared at him, wondering if that meant he wasn’t going to get to see any blood after all.

“Deal,” Inspector Greg said instead, and he helped him up to the seat where Doctor Mike wanted him.  Doctor Mike tied up his arm, because if you block off the blood for a bit then it’s easier for Doctors to take it.

“It’s really against policy,” he was whispering to Inspector Greg, “Blood is a hazardous material, you know.  I can’t exactly open the canister to get out a drop, and I’m not going to drain the kid just to give him something to play with…”

“You’re sticking a needle into his arm,” Inspector Greg said back.  “I’ll get a drop from that.  You won’t have to touch any of the terribly hazardous material.”

Doctor Mike’s face was funny to watch, because he kept frowning at Inspector Greg and then remembering he was supposed to be cheerful for Sherlock and smiling at him.

Sherlock almost changed his mind when the needle came towards his arm, but it turned out that Doctor Mike was telling the truth after all; it was just a tiny sting, and he got to watch the needle go into his skin and his own blood snake out of the tube and into the little canister.  Inspector Greg was right too, because after the needle came out, the doctor had to press gauze against the hole.  Sherlock didn’t think such a tiny hole would need much care, not like if he fell and skinned his knee or cut himself on something sharp.

Doctor Mike balked at pricking Inspector Greg just to make a drop of blood well up for Sherlock’s comparison.

“At least this way you know it’s sterile,” Inspector Greg pointed out.  “Just give me the thing; I’ll prick myself and you can put a plaster on it if it makes you feel any better.”

Doctor Mike for some reason seemed more willing to shove a needle into Inspector Greg’s arm after that.  He didn’t take any of the blood, not like with Sherlock.  He just shoved a needle in, then threw the needle away in a box for sharp objects and stuck some more gauze on the wound.  Afterwards, they both got their own plastic bag for their bloody gauze with their names on them so they’d know whose was whose.

Sherlock had been hoping for fresher blood than a bit of gauze, but at least Inspector Greg hadn’t gone back on his promise.

He didn’t take him to find a microscope just then though.  Apparently Doctor Mike wasn’t finished.  Everyone looked suddenly very strange and serious.  Doctor Mike stopped smiling about the cartoon plaster he’d stuck on Inspector Greg’s arm and Inspector Greg stopped pretending to be put out about it.

Apparently, it was time for them to take pictures of Sherlock for evidence to show if he was hurt or not.  They told him he had to take off all his clothes for it, but he could have a blanket and he could hide under it, except for the bits they’re taking pictures of.

Sherlock was relieved.  He thought he’d have to dress up and smile when they first told him about the picture taking.  Undressing was much less tedious.  It was a bit strange though; Jim always told him that it wasn’t considered decent to walk around without his clothes on.  Normally it wasn’t allowed.

“And we’re all very glad to hear that,” Donovan said when he told them that.  “But just this once, you’re allowed to be naked.”

The strangest part about having his pictures taken was how odd the grown-ups in the room were about it.  They seemed to think he should be uncomfortable, which made him feel weird.  He knew Jim always said naked was indecent, but he never saw the point in clothes himself, unless it was cold out.  Sometimes the material was too rough or confining.  The material for the robe they offered him to put on was horrible; it was better to have nothing.  At least the blanket was soft.

Doctor Mike took pictures of every single part of Sherlock’s body for his evidence, which was what a good scientist would do so Sherlock approved.  Donovan left the room while he did it, because she was a woman and apparently she thought it was weird for a boy to be naked in front of a woman, and they only needed two grown-ups for the pictures.

Doctor Mike asked weird questions too, especially when he noticed how red Sherlock was under his underwear.  Sherlock didn’t want to answer, because it was really embarrassing and he didn’t want them to think Sherlock was a baby.  They seemed to think maybe someone had touched him there, because they asked about that a lot, which was weird.  Why would anyone do that?  That was gross.  Jim said those parts had to be covered up because they were for toilets, and that was gross.

Doctor Mike had to put on gloves to touch him, and he only touched him there because he had to for his tests, Sherlock could see it in his face.  Why would someone do it if they didn’t have to?

In the end the doctor decided it was a rash, and asked if Sherlock ever wet the bed.  That was probably the worst question ever and Sherlock refused to talk, especially with Inspector Greg right there.  No one needed to know anything about his toilet habits.  He most definitely wasn’t going to mention sometimes having to wear a nappy like a baby because toilet privileges were for good kids.  It was bad enough that they knew about the peas.

That was the last part of Doctor Mike’s exam.

Sherlock got to put his clothes back on and Doctor Mike said he could keep the blanket too if he wanted to.  It was soft and Sherlock was feeling a bit chilly after having to sit around with nothing on, so he wrapped it around his shoulders like a warm cape and let it trail down to the ground behind him.  Then Doctor Mike said Sherlock could have his special treat for being so brave and good, which made Sherlock feel funny because he hadn’t been good at all.  He had refused to answer questions and he’d refused to wear their stupid scratchy robe and he’d kept squirming when they wanted him to hold still.  But Doctor Mike said he was most definitely good, and he gave him a red sucker and two stickers with bears on them and Inspector Greg made sure to pick up the bags with the blood and stick them in his pocket so Sherlock would know he hadn’t forgotten them, even if he wasn’t allowed to carry them himself.

Then Doctor Mike took Sherlock to a special waiting room for little kids who had to visit him so he could, as he said it, talk boring adult talk with Inspector Greg and Donovan.  Sherlock wasn’t sure why adult talk was boring or why he couldn’t join in, because Jim always said Sherlock was the best at listening for important things.  Sherlock missed Jim a bit, but he’d see him soon, probably once they were done with the doctor and the doctor told them Sherlock was healthy and not abused at all.

The waiting room was not empty.  There was another kid.  He was older than Sherlock, or at least taller; Sherlock didn’t like to make assumptions and to say someone was older just because they were taller is an assumption.  The boy had blond hair that went all scraggly almost to his shoulders and large eyes and his skin was a funny blotchy color down the left side of his face and he had a blue cast on his right arm but no sling.

“This is John,” Doctor Mike told Sherlock.  “He’s come for a checkup like you, Sherlock.  John, this is Sherlock.  He’s a new patient of mine.  Why don’t you two play together for a bit?”

Then Doctor Mike left with Inspector Greg and Donovan, and it was just Sherlock and the new boy and the woman sitting in a corner with her phone.  Sherlock stood where he was left, his blanket cape still draped about his shoulders.  The boy stared back.  Sherlock had never seen much of other children.  Jim said it wasn’t fair to inflict Sherlock on them.

“Hello,” the boy said, “Do you like trains?”  There was a wooden train set in front of him that the boy had been laying out.  Cautiously, Sherlock stepped further into the room.  There were several toys scattered about, and pillows.  It looked like a room for babies, really.

“Aren’t you too old to play with toys?” Sherlock asked.  The boy jumped a bit.  When Sherlock hadn’t answered at first, he’d gone back to working on the bridge he was building.  He looked up again as Sherlock looked over his work.

“What are you talking about?” the boy asked.  “I’m only eight.”  He was having some trouble because of the cast.  It looked like it was hard for him to get a good grip on the track with his right hand.  It wasn’t a great deal of trouble though; Sherlock rather thought he must be left handed.

“I’m six,” Sherlock said, and he felt a bit better to know the boy really was older than him and not just way taller.  He watched for a bit longer, still a bit confused by this big kid’s enjoyment of baby toys.  It was a new experience, meeting another kid, even one two whole years older than himself.  Perhaps putting together train tracks wasn’t the same as playing with toys.  It wasn’t like the tracks were painted brightly, like baby toys usually were.  They were just wooden.  Perhaps it was like doing puzzles or building models.  Train tracks were a sort of model.

With that in mind, Sherlock looked over the tracks with renewed interest, taking in the bits already laid out and the bits still scattered around the floor.

“You aren’t going to have enough tracks,” Sherlock said, once he had made his inspection.  The boy jumped again, startled.

“What do you mean?”

“You want it to go in a circle and meet itself again, right?  It’s not going to work, not with the pieces you have left.  It’s not going to meet up.”

“How can you tell that?” the boy asked.  “There’s still a million pieces left!”

“No there’s not.  There’s eighteen pieces left.  And they aren’t going to meet up.”

The boy stared at him, then about him at the pieces still left to use.  With a determined look, he started counting them.  Sherlock watched him, a bit puzzled, because clearly there were eighteen pieces there without needing to name each one off, but John kept at it until he had found all eighteen.

“That’s amazing!” the boy said.  “You didn’t even have to count, did you.  Or did you count them when I wasn’t looking?  Can you always tell how many there are of things just by looking?  How can you tell they won’t join up?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Sherlock answered, feeling oddly pleased without quite knowing why.  “I just looked at them and saw it.  Can’t you?”

“I don’t know anyone who could do that.  Not even Harry, and she’s super smart.  She’s twelve.  Can you help me fix the train track?”

Sherlock could have done it easily, just by turning one of the pieces over and making that curve of the track slide over.  He doesn’t do that, though, because what’s the point of making a train go in a boring circle?

“We should make it climb up that box and go under the table!” Sherlock decided.

John was very enthusiastic making the track do all sorts of complicated directions, where it crossed itself under and over half a dozen times, and Sherlock found himself somewhat frustrated with the confines to the number and shapes of the tracks.  He could imagine something way more impressive, if only he had the pieces.  John seemed to like what Sherlock was doing though, so that was okay.  Sherlock had to do most of the building too, because apparently having a broken arm and bruised skin means you can’t move around very easily to lay track.

“Are you sure this isn’t a baby toy?” Sherlock whispered once, when John had giggled over putting a giant bear as an obstacle for the track.

“It’s not a baby toy, it’s a rabid bear!” John answered gleefully.  “And the soldiers will have to come and get it!”  And then all at once John went quiet again, like it wasn’t fun at all.  In a much quieter voice, his good hand almost lazily swooping the helicopter about the bear, he said, “My dad’s a soldier.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that.  “I don’t have a dad,” is what he did say in the end, and John looked at him with wide eyes.

“Do you have a mum?” he asked.

“I have a brother,” Sherlock answered.  “But the police took him away to ask him questions and I had to go see Doctor Mike.”

John frowned, then leaned close over him and whispered, “Did you have to do the funny pictures, without your clothes?”

Sherlock nodded solemnly.  “And he stuck a needle in my arm for blood.  But Inspector Greg said we can look at my blood under a microscope!  And I can see his, to compare.”

“I don’t like blood,” John said.  “The police took my dad away because he was drunk and pushed me down the stairs.  I think it was an accident, but Harry screamed at dad and told the police it was all on purpose, and they took me here.  I live with Mrs. Hudson now.  Maybe you can come live with us too.”

“I have to go back to my brother, after the police are all done,” Sherlock explained.  “They’ll look at the pictures and see he never ever hit me, and he never accidently pushed me down stairs, and then I’ll have to go home.”  Sherlock frowned.  “He’s going to be angry I was bad and made them take us away.”

“What does he do when he’s mad?  Does he hurt you?”  John looked really worried.  Maybe his dad did hit him when he was mad.  John must be one of those serious cases that the abuse hotline people mean when they tell Sherlock that he doesn’t count.

“Jim doesn’t abuse me,” Sherlock explained.  “I only called the helpline because I was bored.  He just locks me in timeout and makes me eat peas.  I don’t like that, though.”  Then, he doesn’t know why, perhaps because John understood about Doctor Mike having to take pictures or because he understands about watching the police take away your family, but he found himself whispering, “I don’t like the dark.”

“I don’t like the dark either,” John said.  He was still frowning.  “Not even when I’m sleeping.  Sometimes, I keep a torch under my pillow.  It feels safer that way, even when it’s off.”

“Sometimes I steal Jim’s phone when I’m in timeout, just so I have some light.  Not even to make calls or play games because I’m bored.  If you play games, the power goes away too fast, and then I don’t have any light anymore.”

John looked confused.

“Is it dark in timeout?”

But Sherlock didn’t like talking about that, because now John was giving him funny looks and wasn’t saying how brilliant he was at laying down the tracks or knowing how many puzzle pieces were in the box without looking at what the box said (and anyway, the box was wrong, because there were three less than it said, and John wanted to put it together just to prove Sherlock was right, but they were finishing the train tracks first).

The tracks were a masterpiece by the time they finish.  They didn’t connect in a circle.  They started off at a steep incline, swooped about the floor, under the table and over the box and under the bear until they dead ended at a fortress made from the bricks John dragged out from another box of toys.  The bricks were brightly colored and definitely made for babies but that was okay because they were crashing them, not playing with them.

They put the train in place at the top of the incline just when the grown-ups came back.

John went silent and still all at once and not at all like John was before.  He sort of hunched over and sort of scooted in front of Sherlock, between Sherlock and the grown-ups.  Inspector Greg smiled anyway and Doctor Mike looked positively gleeful as they all took in their train track creation.

Inspector Greg got down on his knees to join them and John only backed away a little bit.

“Now this is awesome,” Inspector Greg said.  “Can I see the train go?”

Somehow the rush of the train around the track was quieter than it had been when it was just Sherlock and John and the lady on her phone.  John didn’t whoop or laugh.  He did smile, though, and it grew bigger when Inspector Greg told him how brilliant he thought their creation was.

“Sherlock did most of it,” John said, which wasn’t really true, because the brick castle was all John’s idea, and so was the bear attack, and Sherlock’s loop fell apart and didn’t even work, so he wasn’t that great.

Inspector Greg said he was impressed even without the loop.

Then Donovan came and was amazed by their train tracks too.

“I always knew you were a proper genius, Drama,” she said.  Then she said it was time to go.  Just him, not John.  John was going to go with Mrs. Hudson, later, when Doctor Mike said his checkup was all done with.  Apparently it was his turn to see Doctor Mike after Sherlock.  Sherlock wondered if he should give John his blanket for when they took pictures, but Doctor Mike promised it was just a normal checkup, not a picture checkup.

“It’s time for us to go,” Donovan said again, holding out her hand towards Sherlock.

Sherlock was surprised to find out he didn’t want to go, even if he was in a baby toy room.  He liked John.  Also, the thought of going home and sitting in the dark and eating peas was not appealing.  Not when he could stay and build trains with John instead.

“Are you taking him back to his brother?” John asked, and suddenly he was standing between Sherlock and the other people again.  For someone who limped and had a broken arm, John could be surprisingly fast.  He also seemed a lot bigger than before, though that might have been because Sherlock had hunched over on the floor, hugging his knees, instead of listening to Donovan and leaving.

Inspector Greg kneeled in front of them both of them.

“We’re not going to let anyone hurt Sherlock,” he told John, his voice soft.  “Right now, we’re going to take him to eat.  Then I have a promise to keep about a microscope.”

“If he needs a new home, he can stay with me and Mrs. Hudson,” John insisted.  Sherlock wasn’t sure how he felt about that.  He didn’t need a new home.  But if he did have one, going home with John sounded nice.  Maybe John would loan him his torch for his timeouts.

Then John, after hesitating a long moment, slowly approached Inspector Greg.  Inspector Greg held very still while John leaned over to whisper something in his ear.  Sherlock couldn’t quite here what he said; John was good at whispers, and all he could see was the back of John’s head so he couldn’t read his lips.

“I promise,” Inspector Greg said firmly.

John returned to Sherlock.

“It’s okay,” John whispered, this time so only Sherlock could hear him.  “He won’t lock you in the dark.  I’ll bet they lock your brother in the dark for being bad.”

Sherlock didn’t know how to explain to John that it was Sherlock who had been bad, not Jim.

Then they had to say goodbye, and there was no time left to explain.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I should add yet another warning here but I'm honestly not sure what for. That Jim Moriarty is a horrible parent? Who has horrific ideas of what makes a good learning experience? Maybe I should just say this story goes to dark places and while I try not to be overly graphic there may be some intense moments ahead and leave it at that. And I prefer happy endings, so it won't be all dark. I promise John will return.

Sherlock’s stomach felt a bit funny and not like it wanted food.  Inspector Greg had a list though that Doctor Mike had given him with foods he thought Sherlock should eat.  Inspector Greg took Sherlock to a restaurant and pointed at the items Sherlock was allowed and asked him what he wanted to eat.

What Sherlock wanted to eat was nothing at all, but that wasn’t one of the items Inspector Greg pointed at.  Finally, Inspector Greg said he could choose some food, and then, if he still couldn’t eat it when it arrived, that would be fine.  It sounded wasteful to Sherlock, but he dutifully selected chicken strips with carrots for his side.  He didn’t think he’d be able to put up with anything green like the broccoli, and chips were not on Doctor Mike’s list so they weren’t a choice even though they were on the menu.

Donovan didn’t go to eat with them.  She said she had to go and do boring paper work.  Inspector Greg asked Sherlock if it was alright if it was just him, and Sherlock said it was fine.  It wasn’t exactly fine.  What he really wanted was for his brother to come and tell him it was time to go home.  Except then he’d only get peas to eat.  And that thought made his stomach clinch and the last thing in the world he wanted was to eat food.

Inspector Greg didn’t order anything green either.  He got a burger and told them no lettuce and he got carrots for his side too, because he didn’t think it was fair to eat chips when Sherlock couldn’t.  That was silly, because Sherlock didn’t really care that much about chips, but Inspector Greg said he should eat healthy too, and so he got carrots.  He also told them to make Sherlock’s chicken grilled, even though that wasn’t on the kid menu.  The waiter didn’t care and wrote it down anyway.

When the food came, Inspector Greg ate all of his burger and he asked questions about what kinds of books or films Sherlock liked best.  Sherlock later decided that was sneaky of him, because somehow Sherlock ate half the chicken without even noticing he was doing it.  There were no questions that Donovan used to ask, working her way down a checklist.  Nothing about Jim, or punishments.  Nothing more was said on the subject of peas.  Sherlock’s stomach began to relax.

“So you like bees?” Inspector Greg said instead, and then, after Sherlock had told him all about bees and hives and honey, and half his chicken was gone and he had begun gnawing on a carrot, because his carrots were hard and raw while Inspector Greg’s carrots were mushy and disgusting, Inspector Greg asked about a silly show he had seen once on the telly.  It had talking bees.  He wanted to know if Sherlock ever watched it.

“Bees don’t talk,” Sherlock answered.  “It sounds like a baby show.”

“Not all silly things are just for babies,” Inspector Greg answered.  “Some are just for fun.  You had fun with John, didn’t you?  Those toys weren’t for babies.”

Sherlock frowned suspiciously, not sure what the right answer was.  If he said he had fun, would Inspector Greg laugh at him?  If he said it wasn’t fun, would he never ever get to build with trains again, or see John?  Inspector Greg was confusing sometimes.  Sherlock never knew what answer he wanted.  His brother was so much easier to understand.

After eating, Inspector Greg said it was time to fulfill a promise.  He tapped his pocket, and Sherlock knew he meant they were going to look at their blood.  Maybe his brother could wait just a little bit longer.

Inspector Greg took him to Scotland Yard.  Sherlock’s social worker was waiting, the one who looks after his paperwork and makes silly faces at his brother, not the inspector kind of social workers like Donovan and Anderson.

“Hello,” she greeted Inspector Greg, looking over Sherlock’s head and offering her hand.  Her face was not very pleased to see them, though.  She usually wasn’t pleased to see Sherlock.  She told him once how she had enough work without kids like him making a fuss over nothing and giving her paperwork and headaches.  “I’m Ms. Riley, Sherlock Moriarty’s social worker.  I’m here to take him to the group home for the night, until all this business with Jim can be sorted.”

Sherlock takes half a step behind Inspector Greg, grabbing onto his coat without quite meaning to.  He doesn’t want to go to a group home.  That doesn’t sound nice.  And they were going to go to a lab and look at blood.  Inspector Greg had promised.

He can’t see Inspector Greg’s expression from where he is standing.  Is he upset?  Is he happy to get rid of Sherlock?

“We’ve met,” Inspector Greg answered, and his voice did not sound pleased.  Sherlock couldn’t tell if he was unhappy with Ms. Riley or unhappy with Sherlock.  Sherlock didn’t like Ms. Riley.  She was worse than Anderson.  At least Anderson didn’t flutter his eyelashes at Sherlock’s brother whenever he visited, even if they did share an enjoyment of telling Sherlock what a little lying time waster he was.  And Anderson didn’t tell Jim to call him Kitty or giggle.

“I did try to warn you about Sherlock,” Ms. Riley said now.  At least she didn’t flutter he eyelashes at Inspector Greg.  “Come on, Sherlock.  You’ve really made a mess of things this time, but at least Jim gets a break from you for one night.”

“I’m afraid I still need Sherlock,” Detective Greg said, his voice firm.

“Look, I know he needs to be taught a lesson,” Ms. Riley said, her lips trying to smile and frown and the same time and morphing into a grimace.  “But I have enough overtime for the moment and I need him settled in the home now.  We can sort him out tomorrow.  Jim should be cleared by then, anyway.”

Sherlock felt a funny feeling in his stomach, rather like he had after eating the sundae.  He hoped he wasn’t going to vomit again.  That was gross.  The day had just started to feel almost fun and now it was all wrong again and he’d have to leave Inspector Greg and sleep in a strange place all alone and Ms. Riley would probably tell them how bad he was and they’d probably stick him in the dark, and…

“He’s not going.”

Inspector Greg’s voice sounded firm, but calm, like he were stating a fact.  Ms. Riley’s lips gave up on trying to smile.

“Listen, Inspector…” she began, then seemed to lose whatever she was going to say next for moment, until Inspector Greg offered help by saying, “Lestrade.”

“It’s written on his badge,” Sherlock told her helpfully, before pulling back behind Inspector Greg again when she glared at him.  She was definitely going to have the group home lock him in the dark.

“Listen, Inspector Lestrade,” Ms. Riley started again, more confidently this time.  “It’s my job to see that the children in my care are safe and secure and where they’re supposed to be.  Sherlock needs to go now, and I need to go get some sleep so I can deal with this mess tomorrow and get the kid home.  Where he belongs.”

“Ms. Riley,” Inspector Greg said in the same calm, firm tone.  “Sherlock Moriarty is currently in my care.  If you try to remove him from my care, I will arrest you and charge you with kidnapping and child endangerment.  Now, if you will excuse us, I’m taking Sherlock to witness vital evidence and you can go home for your beauty sleep and leave Sherlock’s arrangements to me.”

Ms. Riley looked utterly shocked for one moment.  Then she tried smiling again.  She wasn’t good at it.

“Mr. Lestrade…”

“Inspector,” Inspector Greg corrects her, and her entire face twitches.

“Inspector Lestrade.  Surely you don’t want to look after Mr. Moriarty?  I’m used to him, and…”

“Thank you for your concern, Ms. Riley, but it isn’t needed.”

And he reached down, took Sherlock’s hand, and walked them right past her and down the hall.  They were almost to the corner before she responded.

“They won’t hold the bed for him!” she shouted down the hall.  “Good luck finding a place for him to sleep!”

And then they rounded the corner and Sherlock was still firmly with Inspector Greg and not on his way with Ms. Riley to whatever a group home turned out to be.

“What’s a group home?” Sherlock asked.  “Why can’t I sleep in my bed?”

“It’s a place where children sometimes have to stay so they have grown-ups to look after them and make sure they’re safe and comfortable,” Inspector Greg answered.  “Your brother can’t look after you right now, so Ms. Riley wanted to make sure another adult could.  She didn’t know I was here to look after you.”

“Why can’t my brother look after me?” Sherlock asked, but then they arrived in a lab and Inspector Greg had to slide his badge so the door would let them in.

“They gave me a special pass just for us to use the microscope,” Inspector Greg said, which didn’t answer Sherlock’s question at all, but the lab was more interesting anyway.  There was a man in the room wearing an actual scientist lab coat who was peering intently at a computer screen.  There were a few microscopes, even nicer than the one in Sherlock’s room back at his house, and a chemistry set and several machines that Sherlock didn’t recognize the purpose of, and some computers, and a filing cabinet in a corner.

The man at the computer glanced over when he saw them come in, blinking like someone just coming awake, or perhaps like someone whose mind had been very far away and had only just come back.

“Yes?  Oh, you must be the inspector with the boy.  Don’t touch anything.  You can use that microscope there.  The…er…samples can be deposited in the biohazard waste bin afterwards.  Here, I’ll just…”

Without getting up, he slid his chair across to one of the microscopes and started to adjust it.  Then he pulled on some plastic gloves and asked for their samples.

Inspector Greg pulled the baggies from his pocket.

“Thank you so much for this,” he said, and Sherlock could hear the genuine gratefulness in his voice.  That was rare.  People usually just said ‘thank you’ as a sort of social reflex.  It was the sort of thing Sherlock found annoying because no one ever means please or thank you or sorry, but they get mad if he forgets to say them.  Inspector Greg did mean his.

“I’ll get you sorted,” the man said, sort of shrugging in the place of ‘you’re welcome’.  He didn’t look particularly put out.  His eyes strayed back to his computer.  “Just let me know when you’ve had your look.  I’ve got a report to type up to verify it was semen in the nostril of the…” the man stopped abruptly, his eyes flicking towards Sherlock and his face doing a funny sort of jump.  “I must type up my report,” he finished with, and, having deftly arranged the gauze between the slides and slid one in place, he pulled off the gloves, threw them into a nearby bin marked ‘BIOHAZARDS’ and rolled himself back to his computer without another word.

Inspector Greg sort of stared after him, his eyes wide.  Sherlock went for the microscope.  He wished he had his notebook.  He wanted to take notes on what he saw.  He supposed he’d just have to do as Jim always told him and make his brain into his personal recording device and just store all the new data inside it.

Jim hated when Sherlock’s brain proved faulty.

There was no particular difference between Sherlock’s blood and Inspector Greg’s.  He wished he had more samples to observe, not to mention fresher samples to compare, but Inspector Greg didn’t think it a good idea for them to start poking each other with needles.

“You said you’d looked at blood under a microscope before,” Inspector Greg said while Sherlock made his observations.  “Where did you get that blood?”

“Jim got it for me,” Sherlock answered.  “He gets all my experiment materials.”

“Was it human blood, or was it animal blood?”

“It came from the body we dissected,” Sherlock answered, and he remembered Jim standing at his back, guiding Sherlock’s hand with the scalpel and how it had filled him with elation and pride horror all at the same.  It was Inspector Greg at his back now, one hand warmly on his shoulder the other fiddling with the microscope and it was so completely different and so completely familiar that it made Sherlock feel quite twisted inside.  For some reason, this made a whole stream of words burst out of Sherlock, as though he needed to explain and explain until the world came out right again.

“It was a good learning opportunity.  It was important not to waste things like that.  Dead bodies don’t count the same way live ones do, so you have to find a use for them, so we used his body for science and I learned a lot...”

And to Sherlock’s utter horror he suddenly realized he actually had tears in his eyes and he didn’t know why.  He hoped Inspector Greg didn’t notice.  He didn’t want the man to think Sherlock was a complete baby.  Inspector Greg’s hand squeezes his shoulder quite firmly, not quite to the point of hurting but in a way that feels solid and almost good.

“What was the body when it was alive?” his voice asked, so soft and gentle it almost wasn’t there at all.

“I’ve dissected lots of animals,” Sherlock said, determinedly ignoring his eyes, and anyway that was true and usually it was interesting and brilliant and it was only that one time that his brain kept getting caught up on who the body used to be, and he remembered pulling out the eyes, and he saw those dead eyes in the darkness for months.  “I like dissecting animals.  I learn a lot.”  And then, really fast, almost as though he couldn’t stop himself, he said, “His name was Redbeard.”

He didn’t know what it was about Inspector Greg that made him want to say that.  He also didn’t know why he suddenly had to lurch over and, for the second time that day, share the contents of his stomach with the floor.

The man at the computer shouted and Inspector Greg did a funny sort of acrobatics where he leapt back with his feet but somehow kept his upper body forward so his hand could stay with Sherlock.

Inspector Greg was going to hate him now.  Sherlock couldn’t believe he just did that.  He hadn’t even known he was going to be sick.  He wondered if he had some sort of bug.

“Hey, hey, you okay?” Inspector Greg asked, his voice still gentle, his hand rubbing lightly on Sherlock’s upper back as he slowly started to maneuver them away from the mess.  A bit of the mess was on Sherlock, and he didn’t dare look at Inspector Greg to see if he was spared or not.  Sherlock hadn’t had any time to try and aim away before it happened.  He was lucky he spared the microscope.

“Oh well,” said the man at the computer, surprisingly benign after the loud shout from before.  “I suppose that sort of thing happens with children.”  And he went over to a phone and told the person on the other end that lab 2 was in need of a clean.

Sherlock still didn’t dare look at Inspector Greg.

“Are you still feeling sick?” Inspector Greg asked in that gentle tone again, and Sherlock didn’t know how to answer because he hadn’t felt sick in the first place, and yet it turned out he had been all along.  If he hadn’t known before, how could he know then?

“Come on, let’s get you cleaned up,” Inspector Greg said, and then, when Sherlock didn’t so much as turn around, he asked, “Is it alright if I carry you?”

“I’m not a baby,” Sherlock answered instinctively, and was relieved to discover that didn’t trigger another stomach upset.

He waited for Inspector Greg to disagree and point out all the ways Sherlock had acted like a baby that day, but the inspector just said, “Of course you’re not.  You’re a very brave boy who has had a very hard day.  Let’s get you cleaned up and we can get to bed and put this day behind us.”

The mention of ‘bed’ made Sherlock’s stomach lurch again, but luckily it didn’t rebel.  What did Inspector Greg mean by ‘bed’?  Was Sherlock to go to this mysterious group home?  What if Ms. Riley was right and they had no beds?  Would they stick him in a chair or a crib?  Would they lock him in time out?  Or would they just not take him and Inspector Greg would be stuck and maybe he’d be annoyed.  Or just maybe they’d realize there’d been a mistake and Sherlock could go home.

Or maybe he’d get to go to John and Mrs. Hudson’s home.  No, that was a stupid thing to hope for.  He wasn’t going to get to see John again.

“Hey,” Inspector Greg said in that soft voice, and while Sherlock was stuck inside his own thoughts somehow the Inspector had moved them about so that he could kneel in front of him, his hands warm on Sherlock’s upper arms.  The inspector’s expression was the same as when Sherlock first met him, something undefinable but that eased something inside Sherlock all the same.  There was also a bit of calculation in his gaze, as though he were trying to figure Sherlock out.

“Your words and your eyes match,” Sherlock said, before he quite knew he was going to say anything, and Inspector Greg’s brow furrowed in puzzlement.  Sherlock, having said it in the first place, thought he might as well explain.  “You mean what you say.  Most people don’t.”

Inspector Greg still looked puzzled but he also smiled, so Sherlock supposed that was alright.  Then he took him to his office in another part of the building so Sherlock could change from his dirty clothes into something from his packed bag.  His bee book was there too and he grabbed onto it, not to read but just to feel that it was there.

Inspector Greg left to change his own trousers, which had gotten a bit of sick on them after all.  Sherlock hadn’t even realized, because the inspector never acted disgusted or angry, until he went to change.  His shoes were dirty too, but he didn’t change them, just wiped them off.

“Right,” he said when he came back, then he looked at where Sherlock sat in his chair, hugging his book, and said, “You seem to have forgotten your clothes.”

That wasn’t true.  Sherlock had pants and socks on.

“You gave me pajamas to change into.  I can’t wear those about.”

“It’s fine, Sherlock,” Inspector Greg said.  “The only place you’re going next is to bed.”

“At home?  Or in a group home?”

“In my guest room.” 

Sherlock didn’t know why that statement made something inside him unclench, but it did.

“If that’s okay with you?” Inspector Greg added.  “Donovan said she could take you for the night if you weren’t comfortable with me.”

“I’ll go with you,” Sherlock said quickly.  Inspector Greg’s lips twitched up in a smile that was mirrored in his eyes.  Then the inspector held up Sherlock’s clothes.

“Now come on, surely pjs are better than wandering around in just your pants?”

“I have my new blanket, too.”

Inspector Greg studied him for a moment, and Sherlock watched him, wondering if this was the point when he lost his patience and started forcing clothes on him, or if he’d give up and just drag him along in the blanket.  Maybe he’d even say he changed his mind, and send him on to Donovan after all?

“Well, choose your own clothes then, if you don’t want what I picked out,” he said instead, and his tone didn’t even sound annoyed or impatient.

Sherlock really didn’t get the Inspector at all.  No one was that patient.  Sherlock was impossible to deal with for any length of time; he knew this because he’d been told it often enough.  And yet, the inspector was ready to spend the night with him, after spending the day. It made no sense.  Only Jim could ever put up with him before, and Sherlock was usually better behaved with Jim than to sick up on him or cry or make him drag Sherlock about to doctors and microscopes and restaurants.  Inspector Greg didn’t look put out, though, and not once did his eyes suggest differently than his voice.  Either Inspector Greg was the best actor in the world or he really didn’t mind having Sherlock around.

Sherlock chose his button up shirt, because if he was sick again he wanted a shirt that’s removal wouldn’t leave him with potential sick in his hair, and his black trousers because it was silly to wear a button up shirt with jeans.

Inspector Greg said he could still wear the blanket too, if he wanted to.

It was only as Sherlock was bundled into the baby car seat that he thought about what sometimes happened at night.  Maybe it would have been better to go to Donovan after all.  With her it would still be embarrassing, but he thought he’d rather a month in time out or peas for a year than Inspector Greg ever learning just how much of a baby Sherlock could be.

The only logical answer was to avoid falling asleep all night.  Then he could be sure there were no accidents.

His body did not cooperate with that plan.  He blinked his eyes once in the car and the next thing he knew it was morning.


	4. Chapter 4

Morning turned out to be a stranger’s room with the sun coming in the wrong side through the curtains.  Sherlock blinked, and stared about from an unfamiliar bed with a comfy soft duvet piled on top of him and a too fluffy pillow bunched up behind his head where he must have pushed it in his sleep.

The bed was slightly damp and he felt a deep frisson of fear before he realized it was from being too hot, cocooned as he was with the duvet and pillows and it was sweat dampness, not…not the other kind.

Sherlock had never been the sort to panic over waking in unexpected circumstances, not unless he woke up in complete darkness or with his bed wet.  He didn’t know this room, but he knew where it was because Inspector Greg had told him the night before; he was in his guest bedroom.  Sherlock was always good at remembering things.  There wasn’t a clock in the room but it felt early; the light under the curtains still pale and the morning air beyond his cocoon crisp and still.  There were dark corners around him still, but it wasn’t night dark and it wasn’t scary.

It felt cozy in the bed, even if it wasn’t familiar, but Sherlock had never been the sort to laze about once he woke up.  Besides; if he wanted to make sure the dampness in the bed didn’t become something worse, he needed to find the toilet, and soon.

The wooden floor creaked beneath his feet when he climbed off the bed.  He still had socks on, and his button up shirt and trousers.  Only his shoes had been removed before he was put in bed.  That was an embarrassing thing to consider; Inspector Greg must have carried him in like a baby.  If he had redressed him in pajamas, that would have been even worse.  His shoes were at the foot of the bed, his bag and blanket settled in an old chair.  He didn’t bother with them, heading for one of the two doors to the room.  The first door he tried opened on a closet, not the time out sort but the storage sort, because it was full of boxes, old coats, a couple of paintings he didn’t take the time to inspect, a broken tennis racket and a lot of dust.  There was no room for a little boy, not even if Sherlock curled up in a tiny ball.  The second door led to the hallway.

There were small noises, creaks and groans and something undefinable, like voices too soft to be discerned even as voices, as though the house were slowly waking up.  Sherlock tried the next door in the hallway and was rewarded with a toilet.

After Sherlock was done, he hesitated over what to do next.  Should he explore?  Should he try to find Inspector Greg?  Or should he go back to the room he woke up in and wait for someone to come and get him?  He didn’t know what the rules were in this place.  At home, the rules depended on who Jim had over.  Sometimes Jim wanted Sherlock with him at all times, and sometimes he wanted him out of the way and out of sight at all times, and sometimes he wanted something in-between.  If Jim were there, he’d probably tell Sherlock to explore and find out everything and tell him about it later.

For some reason, thinking about what Jim would want to know made Sherlock feel uneasy, and he carefully went back to the guest bed room.  There was nothing confusing or scary inside the room.  He already knew everything inside it and he knew he was allowed there because it was where he was put.

It was also boring. 

He could read his book, but he already knew his book rather well and he wasn’t in the mood to read.  He could pull things out of the closet to look at, but they were dusty, and besides, if the closet were empty then it wouldn’t be a storage closet anymore and it wouldn’t feel safe anymore.

After an agonizing five minutes or so, Sherlock decided that sitting in a bedroom was just as boring as sitting in time out, and if it were a punishment either way then maybe he should do something more interesting and hope there wasn’t a punishment later.

Inspector Greg’s home was small.  There was the hallway with the guest bedroom and the toilet and a door at the end that Sherlock thought might be where Inspector Greg was sleeping, and another door that Sherlock thought could be another guest room but turned out to be a closet.  This closet had more space than the guest room one did, most of the space taken up by coats with a broom and a hoover stuck in a back corner and lots of shadows and Sherlock wondered if this would be where Inspector Greg would stick him if he were bad, and then he closed the door almost too quickly because it made a loud bang and Sherlock waited and listened but no one ran out to find out what the noise was.  Sherlock continued to explore. 

The hallway opened at the end closest to his guest room door and the rest of the house was on the other side of the wall.  There was a kitchen and living area and a place in the corner for eating that reminded Sherlock of the breakfast nook in his brother’s house, but it seemed to be an all meals nook because there wasn’t a dining room.  The kitchen space was quite small as well, or quite large because there wasn’t a wall to divide it from the rest of the room, just a sort of recess, so Sherlock thought perhaps the whole room could be called a kitchen.  Or perhaps the whole room was a parlor or dining room?  Is there a word for a room that is everything all at once?  Maybe that’s what ‘living room’ meant; a room to live in.

The front door was in this area too, bolted and locked with a chain that was high over Sherlock’s head so he if he had wanted to run away he’d have had to find something to climb first or he’d have to use a window.  Not that Sherlock wanted to run away, but sometimes it’s just good to figure those sorts of things out.  Just in case.

The house was part of other people’s houses too; Sherlock could tell because he could still hear a sort of waking up noise through the walls and under the floor and anyway, all the windows showed a view that was up high but there wasn’t a downstairs to the house so either Inspector Greg lived in some sort of tree house or someone else lived in the downstairs.

The downstairs of Jim’s house was where the servants stayed.

Inspector Greg’s home told a story of a man who is away from home a lot.  The pictures haphazardly displayed on shelves and tables say he’s married, but she must be away a lot too or they both just really hate cleaning.  There is dust on the bookshelves but not the all-meals table, which has a couple of mis-matched mugs left on it but is otherwise clean.  There’s a book by the sofa that is bookmarked, like it is waiting for someone to come and finish reading it.  Whoever is reading it is taking their time however; there is a very fine layer of dust coating the book.  There are dishes in the sink, the stains suggestive that the meals were for single people rather couples or a dinner party; if Mrs. Inspector Greg ate with Inspector Greg, then for some reason they ate different foods.

One of the pictures showed Inspector Greg with a little girl, both of them smiling.  Sherlock frowned at the picture, not really knowing why he didn’t like it.  The girl had the same sort of eyes as Inspector Greg.  She wasn’t a daughter though; there would be more pictures and a bedroom for her if she were.  Even if she didn’t live in the house; even if she were dead.  There’d be more for her in the house if she were a daughter.

Anyway, it didn’t matter if Inspector Greg knew other children.  Sherlock wasn’t going to stay there.  He’d probably go home with Jim that day, and he’d never see Inspector Greg again, unless he became a new part of inspections for the next time Sherlock called for help.

Now Sherlock had seen every single bit of the house, except for behind that final door at the end of the hall that was probably Inspector Greg’s bedroom.  Most of Sherlock thought it best to avoid going in there, because grownups don’t like it when kids go in their bedrooms, especially if they are sleeping in there.  But a little bit of Sherlock was bothered by seeing everything in the house except one room.  He was almost certain it was a bedroom, but he wanted to see for himself that he was right.

The house remained quiet.  Sherlock crept about the everything room even though he’d already noted most everything in it, peeked down the hall again, heard and saw nothing, went into his guest bedroom, sat on the bed, looked under the bed (nothing, except some dust), took a closer look in the closet (the dust made him sneeze this time around), and then he stuck his head out in the hallway again.  Still all was silent.

He walked up to the last door at the end of the hall.  He stomped his feet as he went to make some noise, but his feet were in socks and though the floor creaked it still wasn’t really very loud.  He found an especially creaky spot and jumped on it a few times, keeping his eyes on the door.

It didn’t open.  There was no sound of movement.  No voices.

Sherlock walked up to it yet again, this time on his toes and avoiding every creaky spot he’d noted the first time around.  There were still creaks and if Jim heard him he’d be disappointed but sometimes floors are just creaky and there’s nothing to be done.

He put his ear to the door.  He still heard nothing.  No answering creaks.  No voices.  No snores either.

Carefully, he turned the knob.  It turned.  The door wasn’t locked.  He pushed.  It opened.

The room inside was dark, but the same early morning sort of darkness where there is light coming in the windows through the curtains.  It was a bedroom, and Sherlock knew it was a bad idea to go in, because maybe he would be in trouble, but maybe he wouldn’t be, and not knowing was worse than anything and made his stomach feel tight.  He slid into the room.

It was larger than his bedroom, but it had more furniture in it so it didn’t look much larger.  A large bed took up a lot of space, and there was a tall chest of drawers and a short one with a mirror over it and jewelry and two boxes and a comb and a necktie and some coins and a paperclip and some make-up and a phone sitting on top.  There was a chair in the corner with clothes thrown over it.  There were also some clothes rumpled on the floor.  A small table was on either side of the bed, and the side by the window had a watch and a badge and a phone and a book crowded over it.  The other table had a sort of lacy doily and a phone charger but no phone and a pair of silver hoop earrings.

On this side of the room there was a door and Sherlock thought maybe it was to a closet, but when he peaked through it he saw a bathtub and a toilet and a sink with a mirror over and a towel rumpled by the bath as though it had been draped there but had fallen.

In the bed were two people.  Sherlock tip-toed as quietly as the floor allowed and peered at the person closest to him.  It was not Inspector Greg.  It was the woman in the photographs.  It must be Mrs. Inspector Greg.  She had brown-red hair tied into braids and lace on the bit of her night clothes he could see and, he soon discovered as he leaned in to note she smelled of lilacs, she also had dark eyes and a very loud scream.

Sherlock jerked backwards at this unexpected awakening and the person in the bed next to her jerked upwards, hands fumbling over the table at his side and knocking most of the objects about.

“Greg!” the woman cried, still shrill but more coherent, “There’s a boy in our house!”

“Sherlock?” said Greg, thankfully not in a shrill voice, but a deep and sleep muddled one.  Sherlock had backed away until the windowsill hit his back, his heart banging hard inside his chest, while he tried to figure out if it was a good idea to flee or if that would make everything even worse.  Jim gave the worst punishments whenever Sherlock tried to hide, but sometimes he couldn’t seem to help it.

The woman in the bed finally turned away from Sherlock to look at Inspector Greg, and her voice went less shrill but in no way pleased when she spoke again.  “You know this child?”

“He needed a place to stay the night,” Inspector Greg answered, his own tone apologetic.  “we got in late and you were already asleep.  Sherlock?  It’s okay, everything is okay, you aren’t in trouble.  You just startled us.  Maggie, this is Sherlock Moriarty.  Sherlock, this is my wife, Maggie.”

Mrs. Maggie didn’t look like she wants to shake hands or say ‘How do you do’, which is the correct response to introductions.  Sherlock wondered if he should offer his hand anyway, but somehow his hands were holding onto the window sill and didn’t want to let go so he can step closer.  Maybe Mrs. Maggie was a bit scary and Sherlock wished he’d never come into the room and just waited until everyone woke up of their own accord.

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” Inspector Greg said again.  “Why don’t you go wait in the living room.  We’ll be out in a bit.”

So it was called a ‘living room’ and Sherlock let go of the window and walked around the room, sideways so he could watch Inspector Greg and Mrs. Maggie in case they changed their mind and wanted to come grab him and put him in time out, but they only watched and he went out the door and closed it behind him and he ran down the hall, avoiding the creakiest bits, and into the living room and he stood in the middle because Inspector Greg hadn’t told him where in the living room he wanted him.

He could hear voices now inside the house, from the bedroom, but too muffled to be clear even when Mrs. Maggie’s voice grew shouty.  Sherlock wondered if Inspector Greg were in trouble and if it were Sherlock’s fault, and that made him feel squirmy and wrong and bad because Inspector Greg was nice and now he’d know how bad Sherlock could be.  Sherlock should have stayed in his guestroom.

There’s the sound of doors banging, and then the sound of pipes in the walls and there were no more voices.  Sherlock listened to the pipes and after a couple of minutes, Inspector Greg came out, wearing an undershirt and the same pants he had changed into the night before, after Sherlock had been sick on his first pair.  The pipes’ sounds continued and Sherlock thought that Mrs. Maggie was probably taking a bath in the bathtub.

Inspector Greg looked at Sherlock for a moment, and Sherlock tried to understand what his face was saying.  Sherlock was good at knowing when someone’s face was lying, but when it came to understanding how a person was feeling he wasn’t very good at it.  He knew to check the corners of someone’s eyes when they smiled, and he knew frowns meant anger or sadness, and when faces got tight and the eyes glare and narrow, that usually meant that Sherlock had been bad or stupid and that he was in trouble, unless Jim didn’t care what the angry person thought.

Inspector Greg’s face wasn’t tight.  He wasn’t smiling, not pretend or real smiling, and his lips were a little downturned but his eyes weren’t squinched and his nose wasn’t flaring so he was most likely sad rather than angry.  Then, after a moment, he did smile, and it was a real smile even if it was only a small one.

“I’m sorry,” Inspector Greg said, his voice soft and not shouting like Sherlock expected.  Jim always shouted when Sherlock was bad, and told him how bad and stupid he was, and then told him to go to his room.  Jim didn’t say ‘I’m sorry’, and Inspector Greg wasn’t making any sense.

“Why?” Sherlock asked, because he wanted to know, and Inspector Greg seemed willing to answer his questions yesterday so maybe he would this day too.

Inspector Greg didn’t answer right away though.  He let out a huff that was sort of a laugh, and he went and sat down on the sofa.  Then he answered.

“I’m sorry Maggie shouted.  It’s my fault.  I should have told her you were here.”

“I went in your bedroom,” said Sherlock.  “I was bad.”

“No,” Inspector Greg answered, louder than before, but then his voice went quieter again, and his face remained sincere.  “No, you aren’t bad, Sherlock.  You were smart.  You woke up in a strange place and you went looking for…for the person looking after you.  I want you to find me if you need me.  None of that was your fault.”

Sherlock thought about this.  It didn’t sound true, but Inspector Greg seemed to think that it was.  Nothing in his face suggested he was lying or saying anything less than what he believed.  That didn’t mean it was true, of course.  People can believe something and still be wrong.  But it seemed to mean that Sherlock definitely wasn’t in trouble.  It made him feel better and worse.  Better because he wasn’t being dragged towards the closet.  Worse because somehow he had tricked Inspector Greg into thinking he was good, and Sherlock knew better.  He knew that eventually Inspector Greg would figure it out after all, and that was a horrible thing to wait for.

“Now,” said Inspector Greg, his voice lighter, “How about we find some breakfast and I will tell you how our day is going to go and then if you have any questions, you can ask.”

Inspector Greg consulted Doctor Mike’s food notes and then looked about inside his fridge and in a cupboard and then he said they can have oatmeal with a bit of cinnamon or perhaps toast with beans.  They could even have all three.

Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was hungry, and said they could have whatever Inspector Greg wanted, and so he said, “All three it is!” and he plugged in the toaster and an electric kettle and pulled out a pot and he handed Sherlock some spoons and forks and knives and asked him to set the table before he turned away to get out the bread.

Sherlock didn’t know if he was supposed to make three places or two, but Inspector Greg had only pulled out two of everything, so he guessed he should make two places.  He laid out the silverware and he didn’t know where the napkins were but Inspector Greg handed him some paper napkins when he asked.  There were five in the bunch he was handed.  After some consideration, for he’d never seen how paper napkins are best laid out, he folded two into swans, because that’s an easy thing to make from a square, and placed the swans on a second napkin in the middle of the place setting, and then he made another swan and put it in the middle of the table.

Sherlock also didn’t know about laying out the cups or butter but Inspector Greg looked busy because the kettle was whistling and the toast popped up at almost the same moment and he was trying to open a can of beans but the bit you pull on had come off without opening anything and he was prying it open with a knife instead.  It all looked very busy and like nothing was going to be fixed at all.  So it was very surprising when, five minutes later, somehow Inspector Greg had managed to load up two plates with toast and beans and had them carried to the table while asking Sherlock if he thought he could manage the milk from the fridge or if it was too heavy for him.

Inspector Greg was very impressed with Sherlock’s table setting skills.  Sherlock did manage to carry the milk to the table.

A moment later, there was also butter, cups, and two bowls of oatmeal, and Inspector Greg had a cup of coffee and asked Sherlock if he wanted his toast cut up while he buttered it for him.  Sherlock did not get coffee.  The milk, it turned out, was for him.

Mrs. Maggie never came out to eat.  Sherlock was glad, because he didn’t think she liked him and she might have decided that Sherlock needed to be punished after all.  Sherlock ate, because somehow having all the food in front of him made his stomach realize he really was hungry, and none of it was peas, and this might be his last non-pea meal for ages, because soon they’d stick him back with his brother and Jim was going to be so angry.  Sherlock ate everything and Inspector Greg smiled.

Then he cleared things away, and he didn’t ask for help this time, and he let Sherlock sit and told him about how the day was going to go.

“First, I know you are confused right now.  You don’t know what’s going to happen next and that’s scary.  It’s okay to be scared and confused.  So the first thing we’re going to do today is to get you settled.  Your brother can’t look after you right now.  You are going to stay with a new family.  Do you understand?”

Sherlock didn’t.  He still didn’t know why his brother couldn’t look after him.  Surely by now they’d figured out that Sherlock hadn’t been abused?  And he didn’t know what Inspector Greg meant by ‘new family’.  If he couldn’t stay with his brother, then why couldn’t he stay with Inspector Greg?  He didn’t quite want to ask though.  Anyway, the longer Sherlock stayed, the sooner Greg would realize that Sherlock really was a bad kid and the sooner he stopped liking him.

After a moment, when Sherlock didn’t say anything, Inspector Greg continued.

“After we find you a new home, we’re going to go to your brother’s house, just for a visit.  You can pack more of your things to take to your new home.  And you can show me around and tell me more about what it’s like living there.  Then we can go to your new home and you can settle in.  I’ll stay with you for a bit, and if you hate it there, you can tell me and we can try to find a different home.”

Sherlock was beginning to wish he’d eaten less breakfast.  He didn’t like all this talk about a new family and a new home.  He wanted to go to his home, to stay, even if Jim was going to be so angry.  He knew how his home worked.  He didn’t know how this new home was going to be.

Inspector Greg helped Sherlock to gather his things from the guestroom and then went to get dressed himself.  The last thing Sherlock thought as Inspector Greg led him from his home and down some stairs was that Mrs. Maggie must have been very dirty because she still hadn’t come out of the bathroom all that entire time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If they ever mentioned Greg's wife by name, I can't remember it. But if they did, and I got her name or description wrong, imagine this is an AU wherein he found a different woman to marry. That said, feel free to correct me. It'd be an easy enough thing to change considering she won't be a major character in this story.


	5. Chapter 5

Inspector Greg had to talk to a lot of people when they got to his office.

“Lestrade!” shouted a man as soon as they walked in the door, before they could settle their bags or take off their jackets.  “What’s this about you threatening social workers for doing their jobs?”

Sherlock thought it must be Inspector Greg’s boss or a very rude man who doesn’t know how to show respect to inspectors.  The former seemed most likely, since Inspector Greg didn’t tell him he was rude.  Jim was the boss of everyone and sometimes he’d be very rude but he said it was allowed because he’s the boss.  Inspector Greg allowed the rudeness and shouting because it was his boss.  Sherlock still frowned.  He didn’t like anyone being rude to Inspector Greg, even if it were his boss.  Also, the talk about social workers made Sherlock think that maybe the yelling was because of him and Sherlock had gotten Inspector Greg in trouble.  He wanted to ask, but Inspector Greg left with the boss inspector too quickly, only just taking the time to tell Sherlock to sit and maybe read his book and it would only be a moment.

Sherlock didn’t read his book.  He held it in his lap with his fingers grasping it so hard his knuckles turned white and he stared at the picture of the bee on the cover.  It was a magnified bee and it looked hairy and alien and he named the different body parts in his head and didn’t listen to the muffled voices through the wall.  They were too muted to really understand anyway.  He could have put his ear to the wall but Inspector Greg told him to sit and read, and Sherlock already felt strange and small and it seemed like a bad idea to move from where he was put.

The clock said that twelve minutes and twenty-four seconds had gone by when Inspector Greg returned.  Sherlock thought it was longer than one moment.  It must have been at least two moments, maybe three.  He didn’t tell Inspector Greg that, though.  He sat, and he held his book, and he waited to see if Inspector Greg was mad at him, or if the boss inspector was mad at Inspector Greg or Sherlock, and if anyone was going to be punished.

“Sorry about that,” said Inspector Greg, in just the same tone as earlier than morning.  And just as before, it confused Sherlock, because Inspector Greg didn’t sound angry.  Sherlock thought about asking why he was sorry, but he had a more important question and it burst out of him before he could decide if it was a good question to ask or not.

“Are you in trouble?”

“No, no, nothing like that,” answered Inspector Greg.  “I just had to explain some things.  That’s all.  He understood after that and no one is in trouble.”  Sherlock stared at him closely, but there was no lie anywhere in his face.  Sherlock felt something inside him ease, and he suddenly found his fingers were aching from holding his book and he made them let go.

Next Inspector Greg talked to Donovan and Anderson.  They stood in the hallway, and Anderson looked inside and looked right at Sherlock, but his expression was funny.  It wasn’t annoyed, and it wasn’t the intense doctor face he got when studying Sherlock for bruises, and it wasn’t angry or mean smiling.  He didn’t look at Sherlock’s eyes, just up and down his body, before his eyes settled on the floor and his face was maybe sad or maybe just serious.   All three adults talked in hushed voices but Sherlock could hear them anyway.  He still didn’t understand what they were talking about.

“I need a favor,” Inspector Greg said to Donovan.  “Can you get in touch with Doctor Stamford?”  Then he glanced in Sherlock’s direction and his voice went lower and harder to hear, like he was telling Donovan a secret.  “Ask about Watson’s placement, and find out if there’s room for one more.”

Inspector Greg could have shouted and Sherlock still wouldn’t have known what he was talking about.  He thought Doctor Stamford was Doctor Mike’s other name, because he could remember his name on the ID card hanging around his neck, but he didn’t know any Watsons.  Why did Donovan need to consult a doctor about Watson?  Was Watson sick?  Was Inspector Greg?  Was Sherlock?

Donovan said she would, and it seemed like she and Anderson were going to leave, but Anderson didn’t.  He started to turn away, then turned back again.

“I swear, there were no signs,” he said to Inspector Greg, his voice low.  “None.  I swear, if I’d seen anything, the slightest mark, if he’d only said…”

“He did say,” Inspector Greg answered, his voice still soft and gentle but somehow his words stopped Anderson mid-sentence.  “No one listened.”  Then Inspector Greg left Anderson in the hallway and shut the door. 

He stood for a moment, one hand still on the doorknob and head tilted, like perhaps he had to decide what he was going to do next and he didn’t know, or had forgotten.  After that moment, he brought his hands together in a sort of silent clap, then strode around his desk.

“Now,” he said to Sherlock, “I said we’d get you settled, and we are doing just that, but, I believe it will take time and the upper levels want some results.  So I’ve asked Donovan to help me out in getting you a good home.  You will be settled, I promise you, if not today, then tomorrow.  You will stay with me as long as it takes.  Is that okay?”

Sherlock didn’t know how to answer that.  He didn’t know if it was okay.

“What about my brother?” he asked.  Inspector Greg’s face did something complicated that Sherlock didn’t understand.  Like it wanted to frown but Inspector Greg didn’t want it to.  Sherlock didn’t like it.  It was like Inspector Greg’s face was trying to lie to him.  Then Inspector Greg stood up and walked around his desk until he was right in front of Sherlock and he grabbed the chair next to Sherlock’s and dragged it about so they could sit facing each other.  Inspector Greg’s face wasn’t trying to lie now.  It looked serious, and kind, and maybe sad.

“Your brother did some bad things,” Inspector Greg said.  “Things that are against the law.  And when people do that, they aren’t allowed to watch children.  Sometimes they have to go live in jail for a while.  I know this is confusing and upsetting and scary.  But you aren’t going to live with Jim Moriarty now.  I won’t say you will never live with him again, because nobody knows that.  But it won’t be for a very long time.  Do you understand?”

“He never hit me,” Sherlock said quickly, the words coming out funny because his chest and neck felt tight and his eyes felt shimmery like he was going to cry.  He was a stupid baby, who called people and told things he shouldn’t and now Jim was in trouble because they thought he hurt him.  He could tell everyone thought Jim hurt him.  And Jim hadn’t, and it was like Sherlock lied without meaning to, and everything was wrong and it was all his fault.  So if he did start crying like a baby, well, he was a stupid baby who did stupid things and got people in trouble.  Maybe if he explained, he could still fix it.

“He never abused me,” Sherlock said, his voice still funny, “He didn’t.  I promise.  I was just bored.  I called because I was bored.  I’m sorry.”

“Hey, hey,” Inspector Greg said, his voice impossibly soft, one hand reaching out to grasp Sherlock’s shoulder warmly.  “None of this is your fault.  Not one thing.  Now, listen.  I’m an adult.  And it’s my job to find out if people are being hurt.  So I’m going to find out if your brother hurt people.  If there’s nothing to find, then he won’t be in trouble.  But Sherlock…there are more ways to hurt someone than hitting them.  Doctor Mike says you’re underweight.  That’s because your brother wasn’t feeding you the right things.  That’s a kind of abuse too.”

“No!” Sherlock answered, blinking his eyes hard to make the tears go away but they just kept coming, and his words came out in a horrible sort of sob.  “I was bad, it was me.  I was bad.  He was just punishing me for being bad.”

“Punishment should never ever hurt you,” said Inspector Greg.  “What he did, it hurt you.  Even if you misbehaved, no one is allowed to hurt you.”

Then they sat silently for a long moment while Sherlock tried to understand and to swallow down the crying that his body wanted to do.  He didn’t understand.  Inspector Greg kept his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder, their heads leaning towards one another but not quite touching, and Inspector Greg didn’t try to speak.  He just waited.

When Sherlock finally sat back, Inspector Greg let go of his shoulder and sat back too.  Sherlock could still feel a phantom warmth there.  His face felt wet and snotty and gross and he wiped at his face with a hand, and Inspector Greg pulled out a tissue from a box nearby and let him use that instead.

“Now,” said Inspector Greg, “We are going to your old house to have a look around.  My team will be around too, but you don’t have to face them if you don’t want to.  It can be just you and me.  And we can pack more of your things, and you can tell me about what living with Jim is like.  Are you ready to go?  Do you want to wash your face first?”

Sherlock didn’t know why he’d want to wash his face when he had the tissue to wipe it clean, but Inspector Greg led him to the bathroom anyway and turned the water on for him when he couldn’t reach.  Sherlock saw his face was rather red in the mirror.  The water felt cool and soothing and he did feel better after, and maybe his face looked less like a boy who had been crying.

Then Inspector Greg had to have a quick meeting with the people he called his ‘team’, and Sherlock waited in someone else’s office named Ms. Emma who had a television in the corner that she set to cartoons even though Sherlock wasn’t a baby and Inspector Greg said he’d be ‘thirty minutes, tops, you can ask Emma if you need anything’.  Sherlock was beginning to think that Inspector Greg had a warped sense of time, because it was forty-two minutes later that he returned, and that is twelve minutes more than thirty.

“Thank you,” he said, to Ms. Emma, not Sherlock.  Sherlock wondered if he was going to say ‘sorry’ again because of the twelve minutes, but he just said, “Ready to go?”

He had to sit in the baby seat again.

It was weird going home but not going home.  Inspector Greg wanted a tour of the house.  Sherlock felt silly, and a bit wrong to be walking around his home without Jim, and maybe Jim would be angry about it.  But somehow he didn’t want to disappoint Inspector Greg either.  So he went fast, hoping that somehow that would make things okay.

“This is the kitchen,” he said, “And the breakfast nook, and the dining room.  Here is the parlor.”

But Inspector Greg didn’t want to rush.  He had to take notes and he kept asking questions.  Some of them had nothing to do with Sherlock at all.  He wanted to know about the servants too.

“They change a lot,” Sherlock explained, when asked, and also, “They come from everywhere,” and “They don’t speak English well.  Some are better.”  And “I don’t know, grownups.  Mostly.”

That one had follow up questions.  Inspector Greg was very interested in that bit.  Some of his questions were difficult for Sherlock.  He didn’t know how old people were unless he asked them.  All grownups seemed old to him.  Even Irene seemed old and she told him she was fourteen.  He thought.  She was difficult to understand, but she learned English faster than some of the others.  She really wanted to learn.

They went upstairs, and Sherlock showed his bedroom, and the hall closet and then, rushed, “And this is my room…and up there is Jim’s room.  It’s usually locked.”

Inspector Greg didn’t want to rush past Sherlock’s room either.  Sherlock wished he would.  It wasn’t the kind of room he wanted to show people.  Not like his bedroom, where he had his books and his experiments and his projects.

“It looks like a closet.  You call this your room?”

“For timeouts.  When I’m bad, I have to go to my room.”

Inspector Greg frowned and stepped into the room.  Sherlock didn’t follow.  He didn’t think Inspector Greg would decide to shut him in, but it just seemed safer in the hallway.

“Can you tell me what a timeout is like?” Inspector Greg asked.  “Pretend you misbehaved.  What happens next?”

“Jim tells me to go to my room for timeout.”

“And is the door open or shut?”

“There are more interesting rooms down this way.  I could show you my fingernail experiment again.  Or I could tell you…”

“Sherlock,” Inspector said, his voice low and soft and gentle and Sherlock stopped talking.  “I will love to hear all about your experiment or to see any room you want to show me, but right now I need you to tell me about this room.”

Sherlock doesn’t want to answer.  He doesn’t know why.  But Inspector Greg looked so sad and so serious that he felt uncomfortable in his stomach about now answering him.

“Please, Sherlock.  What happens when you go into this room?”

“Jim shuts the door.  I don’t come out until he opens it again.”

“Can you open the door again if you need to?  If you need to use the toilet or if you get scared?”

Still feeling a bit wrong, Sherlock didn’t say anything this time, just slowly shook his head.

“Is the door locked?”

Sherlock nods.

“What about the light?  Is the light on or…” Sherlock had already started shaking his head and Inspector Greg stopped talking.  For a long moment, Inspector Greg didn’t ask any more questions and his face was being complicated again.

“One more question about this room,” he said at last.  “What is the longest time a timeout ever lasted?”

Sherlock really didn’t want to answer.  He didn’t like Inspector Greg knowing about how bad he was.  Long punishments meant that Sherlock was really bad.  Also, his words felt trapped somehow.  Not answering felt wrong too.  After a moment, Sherlock held up two fingers.

“Two,” said Inspector Greg, “Two…minutes?”  Sherlock shook his head.  “Two hours?”  Sherlock shook his head.  Inspector Greg’s face got complicated for a moment again, before smoothing out, and his voice was very soft when he said, “Two days?”  Sherlock put his fingers down.

After that, Inspector Greg took a deep, slow breath, then started to write down some notes.  Sherlock tugged on his sleeve and he paused.

“I’m not usually that bad,” said Sherlock, “I’m not.  Sometimes it’s only one hour.”

“You’re not bad, Sherlock,” Inspector Greg answered.  “You never were.”

They went towards Jim’s room next, but a stranger was in there and met them at the door.  She looked at Sherlock, then whispered something in Inspector Greg’s ear, and Inspector Greg decided they didn’t need to go in anyway.  Sherlock was slightly disappointed and slightly relieved.  Disappointed because he was never allowed in Jim’s room and he was curious.  Relieved because he wasn’t allowed in Jim’s room and Jim would be angry if he knew he went in there.

The rest of the tour wasn’t too bad.  Sherlock still felt strange and quiet and a bit wrong, but Inspector Greg still seemed to like him and he didn’t go back to Sherlock’s room, and then Inspector Greg asked about his and Jim’s experiments and those were interesting to talk about.

They didn’t go in the downstairs either, where the servants lived.  Inspector Greg’s team was down there and they seemed to think that Inspector Greg and Sherlock weren’t needed.  Anyway, Sherlock couldn’t tell much about a place he only rarely saw.  So he talked and talked about the things he knew, like his project, and it was almost fun.

Then it got bad again when someone from Inspector Greg’s team, not the woman from the bedroom, approached them holding a packet of nappies he’d found in the bathroom.  Inspector Greg wanted to know if they were Sherlock’s.

“I’m not a baby,” Sherlock answered quickly, which was a way of not really saying yes or no.

“Nappies aren’t only for babies,” Inspector Greg insisted firmly.  “They even make them for adults.  They’re for anyone who needs them.”

“I don’t need them.”

“So you never wear them?  Not even at night?  There are children a lot older than you who still need help at night.”

“I don’t need help,” said Sherlock, which was mostly true because he only sometimes had accidents, and anyway, Jim didn’t want him to wear the nappies to bed because he thought Sherlock was big enough to control himself.

Inspector Greg didn’t want to stop talking about the nappies, and that was just about the worst thing ever, and something he never ever wanted Inspector Greg to know about, but now if he didn’t explain then Inspector Greg would think he was a baby and that was even worse than the truth.  So, finally, Sherlock whispered the super embarrassing thing about the nappies in the inspector’s ear.

“Toilet privileges are for good boys.”

“Well then,” said Inspector Greg, “We definitely don’t need these because you are as good a boy as I’ve ever known.”

Then it was time to pack more of his things.  Inspector Greg had a suitcase for him and he started with clothes and then said he had to choose his most favorite things in his room.  Sherlock had a lot of things he loved in his room, and it was very hard to choose and it was a very good thing that the horrible nappies weren’t coming because they’d take up a lot of room.

He chose his microscope, and his skull (Inspector Greg looked at it really closely to make sure it wasn’t a real skull first) and his jars of toenails (Inspector Greg suggested maybe those weren’t a good choice, and Sherlock insisted they absolutely were) and his chemistry book, but not his chemistry set because it was all glass and didn’t fit besides, and his anatomy book, and his secret blue rock that even Jim didn’t know about, and that was about all that fit.

One of Inspector Greg’s team came to the door and whispered a question about evidence, and Inspector Greg said it was fine, he’d noted everything taken, and the person whispered something else and Inspector Greg stepped out of the room to have a whisper talk with his teammate.  That was when Sherlock got his blue stone out.  It was still a secret.

After all that it was almost three and Inspector Greg made a funny expression when he realized how late it was.

“Time for food,” he said.  Sherlock thought he meant they’d go to the kitchen and fix something, but it turned out to mean they were leaving the house with Sherlock’s suitcase and going somewhere else.  Sherlock hoped Inspector Greg’s team wouldn’t mess with the things Sherlock had to leave behind.  He hoped they’d come back soon so he could get the rest.  Or to live because Jim had straightened everything out at last.

They went to a restaurant, and Inspector Greg looked at his food list from Doctor Mike.  Sherlock didn’t want to eat, because his stomach still felt full of knots and not like it wanted food.  Inspector Greg got him chicken again with corn this time.  This time Sherlock didn’t want a single bite even when Inspector Greg tried to distract him with a story about one of his first rescues when he was twelve and tried to rescue a kitten from a tree and got scratched and then the kitten used his body to climb down on its own.  Then Inspector Greg asked him to please have just one bite.

He didn’t get angry when Sherlock didn’t.  He finally just said, “Well, we’ll just have to box it up in case you get hungry later.”

They went back to the car and Inspector Greg buckled him in, then stood outside the car and talked on his phone.

“Good news,” he said when he got in.  “We have a home for you to stay in.  For as long as you need it.”

Sherlock didn’t know what to say to that.  He wasn’t sure if it qualified as ‘good news’ or not.

“Do you remember the boy John you played with?  He is staying with a nice woman named Martha Hudson.  They have room for another boy and so you are going to live with them.”

John?  The John from Doctor Mike’s baby room?

“I’m living with John?” he asked.

“We’re going there right now.  221 Baker Street.”

It was still a stranger’s home away from his brother and all his things.  But John was there.  John liked Sherlock and called him brilliant and wanted to build things with him.

Maybe this new home wouldn’t be so bad after all.

At least for a little while.


End file.
